As a grumpy old lesbian I once shared a train carriage from London to Cardiff with a group of astonishingly enormous, burly blokes, all dressed in pink tutus and wearing angel wings made from real feathers.
They were on their way home after a rugby match, and I never did find out if their costumes were due to them having lost a bet, or had been some strange, superstitious sacrifice to the gods of the game.
I found the incongruity of their gigantic, hairy, bodies in gauzy pink fabric and fluttery, white, feathered wings to be completely hilarious.
That journey is usually tedious, and sometimes terrifying, depending on who else is sharing the carriage. I was neither threatened by their slightly drunken masculinity, nor offended by their completely ridiculous choice of clothing. On the contrary, I felt safer, and more entertained than on any other 3 hour long late night train journey, before or since.